+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ BIKER MATES PART SIXTEEN
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BIKER MATES PART SIXTEEN - Dissatisfaction
CHAPTER TWO : TEN YEARS LATER
I never forgot Martin: I never forgot his face; I never forgot what he was like to fuck, to hold, to pet; I never forgot what it felt like, briefly, to own another man...
...but I do forget: I forget what I've been doing since then, and I keep forgetting how I got like this, and what happened to make me the man I am now, sitting here at this bar in Germany, thinking how things never were the same after Martin left.
I have changed.
You have changed too, dear reader.
===
"Houston..." Karol said, Sunday morning, just four days after we first met, "Don't ever lose it." He was looking at my body with his usual adoring eyes. He was wearing a white towelling bathrobe that piled in deep luxurious folds about his neck.
Now, white towelling robes can be very sexy, falling open across the sculpted upper body, tanned ridges and hollows of a fully developed male chest, a nipple exposed unmindfully to a lover's persistent gaze, the belt tied loosely to suggest it might, with a movement, fall apart and reveal, within its soft white mollusc gums, his beautiful crinkled snail... or they can be very forgiving if you are a bit out of shape. A white towelling robe can be a teasing shield for the imagination. In Karol's case, however, the bulk of the robe made his legs look puny and his head looked too small and I needed no imagination knowing as I did each crinkled fold of what body lay within.
We were in his shower room again, having fucked first thing, and having the whole night spent fucking, and he had brought me a coffee when I was awake. Thick with the sweat and stain of the night I had taken it from his hands carefully, aware of the stuff on my fingers where I had touched him.
We had seen each other again, several times, since the Tuesday before, when Martin had walked out on me.
Karol showered whilst I drank, and then I showered and he watched me, mesmerised like a cat, the first gush from the shower-rose running over my head, down to my legs, wetting my back, and then, as I rubbed lather into my hair and between my legs. I pissed into the shower. He watched, with the customer's gaze at a live performance of a man who danced on a cheap pub stage for money and tricks, and the lather ran off my back, through my arse crack, like a spring flood ravine, and then between my legs, and splashed on my toes, to collect bubbly, and yellow soiled in the drain.
"Lose what?" I fished, knowing how he would answer.
"That look," he smiled, "that sexy look. That real look. That dirty look that looks like you always want to fuck me. That look you had the first time we met."
"Did I?"
"Sure did. That night when you came off your bike and I stopped to help, you looked at me, that first time, in my eyes, you just looked like you wanted to fuck me. I couldn't believe it."
"Incredible."
"Isn't it? And I thought, God!"
"I don't remember," I lied.
"You were concussed."
"That explains a lot."
"You've forgotten a lot."
"Have I...?" and I thought of all the stuff I couldn't forget.
===
Even now, so many years later, after so many years, memories of Martin still flicker in my head, waking and sleeping: Sometimes only his name, sometimes only a worn out familiar feeling that I merely recognise, wearily, but cannot specify - regret, loneliness, guilt, or what it is - until I remember again that it is Martin, and Martin's face, and Martin's lips wrapped around my cock, and my cum in his throat, and how good he was, my cum spilling over his lips and running down his chin and his tongue all white and creamy still caressing the spurts from my cockhead as they subside and he swallows them, his eyes staring at mine for approval.
He was so good.
I remember him curled in my arms, the curve of my prick buried in the curve of his ass, and the way I wrapped my arms around him, big on his smaller strong shoulders, folding my hand over his mouth, letting him sleep, like a trapped creature, with my fingers holding his tongue and touching his teeth.
The smell of his shit.
Talking to my Dad I know that forgetting is at least a possibility, because there is stuff he tells me about, stuff from my childhood for example, or about my mother, even stuff I have just done, that I do not remember. He loves telling me stories about myself. Sometimes it is difficult to believe the stuff he comes out with, but when he tells me about my Mum he gets all misty, so do I, even though the story is something I cannot recall, and I just know that it is true. Tears add authenticity, don't they. Now my memories of Mum are made up of memories of Dad telling me about Mum and what she was like and what I was like with her and what she was like with me and... and so on. You're not interested.
What I'm saying is that it comforts me, because it teaches me that, whilst we cannot perhaps choose what to forget, we know that forgetfulness IS possible; memory is NOT carved in stone; the mind IS capable of some relief, though maybe not until in the ageless future when memories become worn out, overwritten, dissipated. Meanwhile, there is what I cannot remember about Martin that I cannot help but try to recall, and there is what I cannot forget and that I cannot help but recollect, and, well, after many years, that just becomes part of you and you accept... or ... This is a question for you, dear reader: Do you ever just accept the past, do you ever just accept the regret, does it just ever stop ... hurting?
===
I stepped out of the shower, my prick lifting despite myself. Truth is, I enjoyed fucking Karol, or cumming in his face, or whatever. His gratitude was a turn on and, because he was good looking but out of shape, I didn't feel like I had to prove anything. I felt like, 'This is easy! He has to do all the work to keep MY interest. Not the other way round!' I felt valued, like I had his focus, like I had his attention all the time, like I, was the commodity for a change. It gave me a level of control I did practically nothing to maintain. I just had to do what I wanted and leave him to adapt, which he was only too eager to do.
"You always cum quickly, but then you always want to fuck me again before soon," he said, smiling stupidly.
It is true: I like fucking. I like fucking men. I fucking love it. Jesus made me gay. Jesus made me top. 'Thank you Jesus!' as my Mum would say - according to my Dad - before dinner on Sunday or if she saw something bad on telly and realised that she wasn't involved with it in any way.
I walked over to him, water still dripping from my hair and skin. He put a bath sheet over my shoulders and patted me down adoringly, with his face inches away from my face so that we kept were on the verge of kissing. He would have kissed me had I let him.
"That was a night!" he said. I nodded, almost knocking his forehead. "Don't you think so?" he asked, pushing his palm down my stomach and feeling my cock, thick in his hand through the towelling. He did kiss me and I let him put his tongue in my mouth. Our teeth knocked. I put my hands round his back and held him while we fed. I know he liked that. He was holding on to me with one hand round my cock, the other slipped sensually round my neck, rubbing the tips of his fingers over the short cropped hairs that stuck up there at the back, tickling like I could feel every single one of the filaments bend and release; suddenly I was repelled. I drew my head away like he was a girl who couldn't read my mind. His lips were wet and his tongue had not retracted fully. I didn't like it.
"Fuck off..." I muttered.
"You must be enjoying yourself: You keep coming back for more..." he smiled, apparently completely oblivious to my comment. "Ooh ... you feel like you are coming back for more, again," he said, fondling me through the towel. "You're insatiable!"
"I like to fuck. That's normal," I said, thinking that I could fuck him again.
Now.
I started to kiss, and told him to get onto all fours on the bathroom floor there, and I fucked him, with a handful of spit, lifting his robe like a skirt. My arm pressed his head and chest painfully onto the closed toilet seat. My other arm held his waist, keeping him in the position I preferred. He couldn't move his head.
He loved it.
That he was uncomfortable and hurting and without complaint, excited us both, though this was about my orgasm, not his. I rushed myself, jagging hurriedly into his anus, rhythmic and intense, looking, sometimes, down at my hand on the back of his neck, sometimes down at his face helplessly squished against the toilet seat, sometimes, down, at my rigid red meat pulling out and slipping back into his flesh, and, down, at the way my six pack strained as I did this, ridges of stiff muscle flexing and subsiding with each push. I spanked him so he could feel it.
"Yeh. Houston. That's right. Spank me," he gasped through awkwardly restricted lips.
He was such a tart.
"Keep it tight," I told him, "keep it tight," and I felt it grip me, fucked him quickly and faster, sweating, slamming, bodies whacking like hand claps, like guys smack five and back, mates. Karol held it tight, hardly breathing, groaning with discomfort and pleasure.
It took longer than I had wanted but when I was in spasm, buried deep in when he was tightest, all my little soldiers hit him running with bayonets fixed.
I thought about Karol and I thought about Martin and I thought, "Life's a bitch." Life is such a fucking bitch.
"How's that?" I asked, breathing heavily, not for an answer, jerking my nob a few final times, quickly pulling out, leaving him flaccid and unsatisfied, but still apparently grateful.
"You like being treated like shit," I said, kneeling behind him, partly amused, partly disgusted. I was watching his asshole open and contract, the dribble of juice running across his bulging perineum and dripping through the short hair covering his ballsack. He held his position, like he was exhausted because he had done all the work.
"It's not like shit being fucked by you, Houston," he said. "I ... can't get enough of it... I..."
I leaned forward and with one thumb pad pressedr> I leaned forward and with one thumb pad pressed his rosy bitch hole where it dripped and winked. He winced.
"Hurt?" I asked.
"Bit sore. No problem. Your thick cock's been up it since last Wednesday. That's more action than... it's used to. Stings a bit. I'm getting used to that, gradually... like I have much choice!"
"Yeh, you poor thing," I said and gave his hole another push. He was warm and wet and soft inside. I wiped my thumb off on his thigh where there was a bit of hair that didn't have already any sweat or shit or arse juice or cum in it.
Karol raised himself off the tiled floor like he'd got cramp, twisted round, opened the toilet and sat on it with a 'squitch' sound.
"And since you don't like lube..." he continued.
I looked at his tummy, his dick, his rather large, honest-looking eyes, big hair, big eyebrows, big eyelashes, his tummy, his dick.
"Are you having a crap? Don't shit out my stuff," I snapped.
"'S fine, Houston, all present and correct!" he grinned. "...I really like being fucked by you," he said, and reached out before I could duck, and roughed my hair. "You're so butch."
I got up and washed my prick in the sink so he couldn't see me blush, though I could see in the little cabinet mirror that he was looking at my back and my firm hard backside and the way my thighs and calves and ankles flexed as I lifted my stuff over the lip of the basin and splashed it with cool water, pulling back the ripe foreskin and thumbing it clean round the glans. I like playing with my stuff. Don't you? Karol liked to watch. He seemed to delight in everything normal and ordinary that I did, each and every thoughtless expression of authentic masculinity.
===
That was a good many years ago now. Ten years.
"So what're we doing today?" He had said.
"Y'wha'?"
"It's Sunday! I'm all yours. We can do anything!"
===
Yes, dear reader, I had in fact given up a Saturday night to be with Karol, my new found fuck. The little bitch had already practically got me moving in with him. Karol and I had practically been in touch practically continuously since we had met. Thats modern communication for you! He was practically all over me practically all the time: his eyes, his chatter, his restless urge to possess me.
It practically took my mind off the Martin situation... practically. The so-called 'Martin situation'. Now it is all so long ago I can't be bothered to go over it again. Let's just say: That night he went away he never fucking came back. He fucked off, basically. The cunt. I'm not going to say any more about it.
Alright then:
Wednesday and Thursday I expected Jez to keep in touch at least. I left messages and texts on his phone, on Jez's phone. No answer. I did the same with Martin's number. Now I didn't know if he was alive or dead... though I assumed, angrily, that he was having the time of his life. I even phoned the BBC, where he worked. They confirmed he was "unavailable". It was ridiculous. Where was he?
Meanwhile, I still had his bike. I had his keys, his wallet and all his clothes all bundled up in an old A4 box locked inside a large drawer I kept for personal stuff. There it joined my porn, a packet of crisps and a pair of underpants I'd found one morning in the doorway of the office; they were soiled, latent with obscenity and triggered a charged image of sexual degradation in my head - as you can imagine. I loved those underpants. I've probably still got them somewhere...
The absence of information gaped inside me, a sick hole of anxiety and sorrow, and though fucking Karol was a distraction, in the end, desperately, I decided to endure the embarrassment and humiliation of contacting Martin's mates. Hud and Wayne would surely know something.
Hud was absolutely no help.
He just started shouting when he realised it was me, "I fuckin' knew it. You done somethin' to him. I said you would. I tell you what though, it didn't fuckin' take long! I reckon he saw right through you and run a mile... Where's he gone?"
"You don't know then?" I asked.
"He's your pussy," said Hud, "you find him!" and disconnected.
The next time I see you, Hud, I'm gonna beat you up, I thought, in a rage. He has such a puny body, like a girl: thin, lean-muscular, but not built. His soft girl's honey-coloured skin... I could take him. Would that be rape? I suppose so. So it would have to be rape, then. Taped face. Tied arms. Jeans pulled roughly down. Violation. That would shut him up. He needed a lesson in subservience. He would really profit from feeling my cock beneath his pristine tan-line. Hey, he might even learn to show me some respect. He might even find himself craving it.
Next I phoned Wayne.
Wayne said there was nothing he could do, like he knew something but refused to get involved.
"But aren't you worried?" I demanded, and Wayne replied, "'S like Lacie say, Wha'th'use? She right."
"Lacie's always right," I said, sarcastically.
"You got it!" said Wayne with satisfaction. "She a princess, an' she know, she always know."
"Don't you care?"
"Care what? Lacie she say he fine."
"Has he contacted you then?"
"Me, no. Lacie, me think so."
"Did he or not?"
"Bruv, me think so, tha's all."
"Look, Wayne, if he contacts her again could you ask her to give him a message for me...?"
"Don't think I can do that, bruv. Lacie don't do no message service."
"Just ask her to tell him... If he wants to collect his bike, to tell me. I've got his keys still, his wallet for fucks sake..."
"That it? No problem. He want his bike."
"Did he tell you that?"
"No bruv."
I gave up.
It was not until Monday Wayne popped round to the shop. He said Lacie sent him to collect the stuff Martin had left behind - his gear and money and keys - to give to Lacie to give to Martin. Yes, she had spoken to him. Yes, he was fine, or alive, at any rate. No, there was nothing more he could tell.
In his biker gear Wayne looked like one of those sexy couriers we see so many of, but in his face and the way he greeted me and the way he held out his hand, there was a kind of pitying condescending superiority, like he was my teacher or my uncle and I was a bad kid, or like he was a Christian and he was trying to forgive me and was he praying for my soul, whether or not I wanted it or believed in it.
So, what, 're y'gonna spank me, Wayne? Cunt.
And a day later, Martin's bike just vanished.
Martin had vanished.
Frankly, I cannot be bothered to explain. I mean, it's pretty incredible. He never even texted me ok, sorry, couldn't explain, hoped I'd have a good life... In any case, what was there to explain? Let's just say: He went and he never came back.
Well.
FUCK YOU MARTIN.
You chose your life. I didn't choose. You chose. So you can fuck off.
===
There's that barman deliberately ignoring me. Well fuck you, honey! I don't even need a fucking drink.
===
Karol said that my life was, 'a contagion of unforced errors'. He meant it was a fuck up. Basically, he is an accountant and that was his assessment: I am a fuck up. A good fuck, but a fuck up. A few months later, when he got a job at a London football club, he insisted I come with him. He said we were boyfriends. I didn't argue; my life was going nowhere. I thought it might help. Truth is, I thought HE might help.
We even got married, but that was later.
It's like this: There comes a time when you have to stop that long process of changing, and at that point you have to start accepting yourself, which can take even longer. There comes a time when you cannot hide behind the face you see in the mirror, because the face you see in the mirror is no longer the face you once admired whilst shaving, no longer the one you practised with your kissing lips, no longer the gurning selfie with perfect hair and fuck-me eyes. Gradually it reveals the truth. Like your evil twin, it takes over, it takes control and you are no longer acting, or playing, or having fun; you are you, and that's it. I guess that's what happened. I certainly stopped having fun the day Martin walked out on me. That was a slap to my ego, no mistake. That was the day I died.
I exaggerate. I didn't actually stop having fun completely, but if you have been there, you'll know what I mean.
===
Now I'm sitting in this bar and the barman is ignoring me, absorbed in his own phone life. My own face, in the mirror behind the fancy bottles, is staring at me with a kind of dejected pity.
Strange, my face, creased, looking at me as if I am someone else, someone my own reflection cannot recognise and does not want to be.
After all, Dorian Gray was only a story, not a case-study in the Lancet (that's a medical journal, look it up)! No, for most of us, we put our beautiful young-selves in the attic instead, and develop a new appearance, the appearance of weariness, experience, and age. The butterfly crawls with inexorable, reluctant duty, back, into the chrysalis, and dies. I'm not exaggerating. If you've been there, you'll know what I'm saying.
Look around. Out of all the possible futures, this is the one you ended up with. So when you wondered how it would all turn out, back when you were a kid, well, you now know. I hope you're satisfied. Alright, I don't actually care about you, but I don't mind admitting: I'm not satisfied. I'm not satisfied at all.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
END OF BIKER MATES PART SIXTEEN